The wind in Iceland tells you exactly who she is when you meet her and I love this immediately. She is blunt and real and raw like a backhand across my cheek, a black woman over brunch. She ain’t no prissy lil’ bitch. She is full-grown, big-boned, loud enough to know that she is there, but careful not to take up too much space in your world. She reminds me of me.

I walk more here than I walk at home. The ice on this land hugs my feet as if to say I love you over and over again even though we both know this is only temporary. Hugs always end. Ice always melts — even here.

For now, we walk like two crushing kids. Her slapping me with kisses on my cheek, knocking my hood off, but not bringing tears. Me cursing under my breath because I gotta act like I don’t like her messing with me.

I do though and she knows it.

She is fierce but never mean. She means well, always meaning it. In the darkness, her breeze pushes me uphill carrying me like the prayers of my ancestors. Can air be black? Hers is pure and fresh and hard and loving and that is the blackest shit I know so the answer must be yes.

boston-based lit educator, researcher, and mixtape maker raised at the intersections of gospel and go-go. find [them] dreaming and working toward liberation.

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